


Men of Honor

by questionablemorals



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 09:36:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/questionablemorals/pseuds/questionablemorals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I belong with my brother."<br/>Or, the one where Jon Snow is a man of honor, but honor is more subjective than anyone ever thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Men of Honor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dalyeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalyeau/gifts).



> Written as a Secret Santa gift for light of my life/bane of my existence Ray.  
> It gets painful.

Honor takes many shapes. Vows. A sword through someone’s heart. A horse.

It hadn’t been an easy decision. But Jon had expected it to be harder.

As he galloped away from Castle Black, from Sam and Grenn and Pyp unconscious in the snow, he realized that the decision had been made for him, before he’d even taken his vows, before he could even remember. It had been made in the trees around Winterfell, warmed by weak summer sun, while he lay next to Robb as they talked about duty and honor and family, because Robb was just as Tully as he was Stark and there were moments where Jon wished he was too. It might have been easier.

“I can change the rules,” Robb had declared, voice filled with easy confidence and bravado, full of the belief that eight-year-old boys have that they can change the world on a whim. “You can be my heir, help me be lord of Winterfell.”

Jon had almost smiled. “I’m sure I’d be a lot bloody better at it than you,” he had replied, stretching out his legs, back of his head resting on his hands as he stared up at the trees. “But I doubt your lady mother would let you get away with it. You’ll marry a Karstark or a Baratheon, like as not, and your son will be your heir.”

Robb made a noise of protest, then sighed. “Well, yes, most likely. But it’d be a lot easier to bear with my brother there with me.” He had kicked his foot out against Jon’s, and Jon _had_ smiled then.

Honor is a matter of opinion.

His horse was fast, but home was still far, and Robb even further. He stole, dressed in brown instead of black, ate little and slept less. On the nights when Ghost could hunt, they ate well, Ghost breaking away to howl silently, as if his brothers and sisters could hear him.

They avoided Winterfell. Robb would forgive him, maybe even welcome him. Lady Catelyn would not.

Jon began to stick to the road, while Ghost matched him in the trees. He stopped at taverns and inns, heard talk about the young wolf, Ned Stark’s son, gone to war with the Lannisters. He heard talk about calling the banners, fell in with a company headed south. “I’m a Hornwood,” he lied. “Sam Hornwood. I got separated from my company, got hit by a wildling raid up north.”

He was welcomed, and swept south.

Ghost kept howling silently at night, eyes glittering in the trees, unnoticed by the company except Jon. It wasn’t until several days in that something started howling back.

“I hear Stark’s got a wolf the size of a horse,” said one of the men, as the howls echoed in the distance. “He lets it run wild through camp, and it feasts on human flesh every night.”

“I doubt that,” replied Jon, quietly.

Robb’s camp was sprawling, a chaos of tents and people that seems to appear out of nowhere. And, suddenly, as they arrived, Jon realized he had no idea what he planned on doing next.

“If you can’t find your people, we can make room,” said one of the men he had traveled with, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” he said, a little overwhelmed. Everywhere he looked, people were sharpening weapons, mending armor, or cooking food. Asking for Robb would draw too much attention, and he didn’t fancy falling into the hands of Theon Greyjoy or one of the other men who would be quick to draw steel and would ask questions later.

It was safer, then, to bide his time, and catch Robb alone, explain it to him.

Life, it seemed, had other plans.

The howling had begun late into the night, an almost ceaseless noise that drew Jon, as well as several other muttering men, out of bed and towards the woods, eyes searching through the trees, hands on knives and swords. The wolf was close, it seemed, and there was real fear in some of the men’s faces.

“Maybe the Young Wolf has come to eat us,” one of the men joked quietly, but the joke fell flat as the noise cut off, fading into yips and growls.

“I dunno, but as long as he’s silent, he’s free to eat his fill,” said Jon. There were some quiet laughs, and some of the men returned to their tents as silent minutes ticked by. Jon kept peering into the woods, until he saw a flash of white and took off after it.

“Ghost,” he whispered loudly. “Ghost, to _me_.”

The wind whistled through the trees for several long moments before the direwolf appeared, padding silently through the foliage to Jon. The wolf glared reproachfully out at him.

“Was it you?” asked Jon. Ghost cocked his head, baring his teeth, and Jon narrowed his eyes at the wolf. “We can’t afford to draw attention.”

The direwolf wagged its tail, looking, if it were at all possible for a wolf, reproachful, and growling, which struck Jon as odd for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Until he realized that Ghost was silent.

He swung around, falling into a defensive position as a massive direwolf trotted out of the trees. Grey Wind had grown even bigger than Ghost, and was more than a little intimidating, and when the direwolf _howled_ , loud and terrifying, it was almost enough to drive Jon to his knees. Ghost trotted up next to Jon, joining his brother in howling even as he added no noise.

Grey Wind seemed satisfied, and let his head drop as the noise died away, padding forward to butt Jon in the chest. Jon’s hand came up almost automatically to brush across one of the direwolf’s silky ears like he had so often done to a much smaller and less terrifying Grey Wind.

“You can’t possibly really be this stupid.”

Jon froze, hand resting on air as the direwolf sprang away towards the trees, winding around Robb Stark, who was glaring at Jon from the edge of the clearing.

Jon swallowed. “You mean stupid enough to take on the Lannisters and all the southron lords? Oh, no, wait—that was _you_.” His tone was light, but he refused to look at Robb, didn’t want to see the possibility that Robb might send him back or kill him written on his brother’s face.

“There’s no way you’re Jon, because Jon has seen enough beheadings to know what happens to deserters,” continued Robb, advancing forward slowly. “Jon wouldn’t throw away his life in such a reckless way.”

“Lord Stark was my father, too,” said Jon. “Did you expect me to just sit on the Wall and watch my family go to war?”

“Yes,” said Robb, stopping, and now that he was closer, Jon finally looked at him. He was taller and looked older, but his eyes were the same, staring into Jon the way Robb had always been able to. “You took the black, Jon, that’s what happens.” It was almost plaintive, and suddenly Robb just looked tired.

_I didn’t want to hear about you dying the same way I heard about Father._

_I didn’t want to never see you again._

_You were my brother before they were._

He shrugged at the ground. “I’m all in brown, now,” he said. “Doesn’t suit me quite as well as black, but it fits my purpose.” Grey Wind came up and nosed against Robb’s hand, and Robb started, looking down.

“And what, exactly,” said Robb, quietly, not looking at Jon. “Is your purpose?” He absentmindedly tightened his fingers in Grey Wind’s fur.

Jon stared at Robb for a moment. “To avenge our father. To fight by your side.” He paused. “To die by it, if it comes to that.”

Robb brought his head up to stare at Jon, eyes hard. “You might get to fulfill that purpose, then. They’ll want me to behead you.”

“And you?” said Jon, standing perfectly still, and Robb’s eyes softened.

“Have I really changed so much, Jon, that you think I’d want to behead my oldest friend and brother?”

 _I know what Robb wants,_ Jon wanted to say. _I am not so sure of the Young Wolf._

“I heard they put a crown on your head,” he said, finally. “They say a king cannot always do as he likes.”

Robb moved closer. “And they say traitors have no honor, Snow.”

“Honor has several forms, _Stark_ ,” said Jon. “I’m honoring an old promise.”

Robb’s face split into a smile, and suddenly he looks every inch the boy Jon had left behind to ride off to the Wall. “I remember.” He strode forward, dragging Jon into a hug as Jon clasped his arms tightly around him. Robb was taller, and felt leaner, but so familiar it was almost enough to let Jon pretend nothing had changed.

But of course, _everything_ had changed.

Jaime Lannister was his brother’s captive, something that Jon still could scarce believe to be true. Theon Greyjoy was gone, off to raise the Iron Islands to Robb’s cause. And Lady Catelyn was _here_.

“He’s a traitor—whatever my…personal feelings on the subject,” Lady Catelyn said, quietly. “The fact remains that he’s an oathbreaker and your father himself would—“

“ _Our_ father is dead,” pointed out Robb. “Perhaps winning means changing the game a little.”

“This isn’t a _game_ ,” flared Lady Catelyn. “Actions have consequences. Ours more than most.” She glared at Jon.

So, perhaps, some things _hadn’t_ changed.

“I never took my vows,” the lie slid easily off his lips, and Robb, to his credit, did no more than flick his eyes to him. “I never was good at following orders.”

Lady Catelyn huffed. “I’m well aware.”

“ _Enough_ ,” said Robb, drawing himself up to his full height as Grey Wind got to his feet beside him, Ghost staying laid out across the floor of the tent gnawing on a bone. “Jon was trained to fight, same as Theon and me, and we can’t afford to send away good fighters. He stays.”

Lady Catelyn pursed her lips and exited the tent, cloak flaring out behind her as Jon watched.

“Well, if we’re not beheading him,” said Smalljon Umber, slowly. “Welcome to the vanguard, Snow.” He clapped Jon roughly on the back. “Anyone got any more ale?”

Dacey Mormont shoved her tankard at him. “Have at it,” she said.

Robb dropped down next to Jon. “So, Snow. Did you get rusty, up at the Wall? We’re not fighting scattered wildlings here, you know.”

Jon smiled. “Worry about yourself, brother. I’m not the one with a crown on my head—no one will be aiming for _me_.”

It turned out that when you stood between Robb and a Lannister bannermen, they _did_ start to aim for you.

Smalljon laughed uproariously as he swung a sword into a guard, gutting the man with his own blade and leaving it there as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ready to run back to the Wall, yet?”

Jon kind of wanted to hit him. He settled for punching an advancing soldier in the face with the pommel of his sword.

“To me!” screamed Robb, punctuated by growls from Grey Wind and the screams of the dying. “To _me_!”

Dacey Mormont stood back-to-back with Jon Umber, dancing around each other, taking out foes as they slowly pushed their way back towards Robb, who was grimly fighting on even as his men dwindled under the few Lannister forces that were still pushing forward.

Jon grunted, shoving his sword through a soldier, and leapt over the bodies of two men who had fallen over each other. His horse had long since been cut out from under him, and he couldn’t see any others roaming free.

“Easy enough,” he said, grimly, and, seeing a group of Robb’s men struggling towards his brother, fought his way through the seething crowd towards them, hacking at hands and heads alike, climbing bodies of horses and men both dead and dying, to get to Robb.

“Took you long enough,” his brother grunted. “Even your wolf got here faster.” Ghost was merrily ripping at a man’s armor next to his brother, both wolves’ fur matted with blood. Grey Wind sported an arrow in his shoulder, while Ghost had a long cut down his back, though neither seemed to be slowing down at all.

“He’s got four legs,” gasped out Jon, sword flashing. “I’ve got two.”

“To _me_!” thundered Robb again. “Fall back, fall back!”

He needn’t have bothered—the Lannister men were all throwing down their weapons or fleeing. The battle hadn’t been much of a battle, more of a small, uneven skirmish, and, for the first time, Jon began to let himself think that maybe Robb might be able to succeed.

And when Smalljon Umber drunkenly cheered Robb as “Lord of Oxbridge,” Jon joined in as the bannermen chanted for the King in the North.

Robb looked at him and smiled, the same smile he had smiled as a boy. It made Jon’s chest ache, and he had to look away.

Not all battles went so smoothly.

At Ashemark, they experience casualties. Men Jon knew, had fought with and traveled with and shared bread with, strong men, experienced men, fell on the battlefield, swords picked up by those following behind them. It was a bloody battle, bloodier than Oxcross by far. Marbrand men were seasoned and loyal, and long marches had taken their toll on the Stark forces.

Eventually, Ashemark _did_ fall, taking a chunk of the Stark forces with it.

It also, unfortunately, took a chunk of _Jon_.

“His Grace wants to see you,” said Dacey Mormont, jerking her head towards Robb’s tent. “He’s not exactly pleased.”

Jon looked up from the wound in Ghost shoulder he was washing out. “I don’t suppose he would be.” He sighed.

Dacey shrugged. “For what it’s worth, Snow, _I’m_ glad you’re here. Even minus a few fingers, you can still swing a sword well enough.” She trotted away, gait easy and body relaxed.

Jon wished he could share her ease, but his body tensed up, rather than relaxing, as he finished tending to Ghost’s injury, dealing with the wolf angrily nipping at his hand once or twice. He pulled his hand away, frustrated, as the direwolf stared up at him, teeth bared. Jon glared back. “I’m trying to _help_ you,” he muttered.

“By getting yourself _killed_? Or captured?” Robb bit out, angrily. “You put yourself and others in danger every time you pull a stunt—this isn’t about glory for you, Jon—“

“No, it’s about glory for _you_ , Your Grace,” snarled back Jon. “Riding in the _vanguard_ , you’re much more at _risk_ —“

“ _I’m not the one who lost fingers because he was a bit too slow with his sword_ ,” said Robb, jumping to his feet. Nearby, Grey Wind snarled. Robb and Jon ignored him.

“I told you,” said Jon quietly. “I will die by your side, if it comes to it.”

A look of anguish crossed Robb’s face. “I’m not—“ He glared at Jon. “Arya and Sansa are gone, I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again. Father’s dead. I’m not looking to lose anyone else I care about.” He stepped closer to Jon, looking almost lost, and it scares Jon how badly he wants to protect Robb Stark. He would die for this man (because neither one of them are boys anymore) and he’d never felt this way about anyone else and yet the feeling was entirely too familiar.

When they were young, he had worshipped Robb, wanted to be like his older, legitimate brother, until he realized he never could and never would. He had expected the worship to go away.

It never had.

He had been quiet, reserved, good at masking what he felt—all the things a bastard learns as his part in a highborn family. He had pretended he didn’t feel anything more than brotherly love for Robb.

 _You don’t understand_ , he wanted to say, as Robb stared at him. _It’s worth it, it’s okay, I traded a few fingers for your life and I would do it again._

“He was headed for you,” said Jon, evenly. “Headed towards your back.”

“You were stupid,” said Robb, stepping towards him again. “He was _bigger_.”

“This is what I swore to do,” said Jon. “Protect you. Protect the King in the North. I doubt a few fingers is the only thing I’ll lose.”

“Stop saying that,” said Robb quietly, so quiet that if Robb hadn’t been so close, Jon wouldn’t have been able to hear it.

“It’s true,” said Jon just as quietly. “I vowed to lay down my—“

And then Robb was kissing him, hot and fierce and desperate, all teeth and dragging tongues and the best thing that’s ever happened to Jon and also the most surprising. Robb’s hands are clutching at his hair as he breaks away, pressing their foreheads together. “Break it,” he gasped, low and desperate. “You’ve broken vows before. I don’t want you to die for me, Jon, not _you_.” He breathed deeply. “I never wanted anyone to die for me.” It slipped out before Robb could stop it, and he looked like he wanted to take it back.

 _No weakness for the King,_ thought Jon, bitterly, angry at the world and the Lannisters and everyone who had made Robb into a king. _No weakness for the Young Wolf._

He pushed Robb back. “Some vows are too important.”

Robb snorted, face grim. “Some bastard _you_ are.”

Jon wanted to do something, to hit him or leave or ride back to the Wall, do anything to stop Robb staring at him like he’d broken every promise he’d ever made.

So he kissed him again, hard and fast, because what was another unforgivable action in the life of someone whose very life was unforgivable. Robb kissed him back, hand gentle as it touched the bandage wrapped around Jon’s three remaining fingers, then less gentle as he gripped Jon’s arm, then hip.

Jon didn’t mention it, but by the third time Jon came apart under Robb’s hands, he knew Robb probably realized why Jon was so willing to die by his side.

Robb never mentioned it, but his face turned dark and grim when he saw the scars littered across Jon’s chest, some newer and some old, and Jon thought perhaps Robb could feel the same.

Surprisingly, though, nothing much changed.

There were still long marches and war councils, and Robb’s face remained stern, his hand never far from his sword, Grey Wind never far from his side.

But there were hours, deep in the night, that belonged to Jon, when he did things that made Robb bite down hard on his shoulder to muffle his cries, when the battles seemed so far away.

They never discussed at. At supper, Robb would still clap Jon on the back, and call him brother, and Jon would sit quietly amidst the bannermen as Robb did his best to increase morale around camp. It was the same as it had been, yet also so irrevocably different.

It was a life that Jon could get used to.

And therefore, that meant that it couldn’t last. He should’ve realized that rule of life by now, but it wasn’t until Robb almost died that he fully understood the truth of it.

The Battle of the Crag had been hard for all of them. Smalljon Umber had taken a wound to his leg, and seemingly through only sheer force of will had walked again. Dacey Mormont had come through the cleanest, with only a small slice on her face that would no doubt scar and a chunk of hair that had been torn out during the fighting. The other bannermen had various wounds, and Jon was no exception—he had a nick on his ribs from an enemy sword and a spear against the shield he had picked up from one of the dead soldiers had nearly crushed his arm.

Robb, however, had taken a heavy blow to the head and a cut to the thigh, and had to be carried off the battlefield by Jon and Dacey. Seeing Robb laid out and pale, far too pale, had hit Jon hard like a physical blow, and he avoided looking at his brother, so still, stiller than Jon had ever seen him.

The Westerlings had all blurred together for Jon—the women looked fearful and the men sullen—as they carried Robb into one of the rooms in the castle, placing him gently on the bed.

“His wounds—“ Jon swallowed. “His wounds need to be seen to.”

“Go,” said Dacey. “Find a maester. I’ll watch him.”

Jon paused. “The Westerlings—“

“The Westerlings can do what they will, but they will find I am not so timid as the daughters they raised.” Dacey grinned, and looked so wolf-like that Jon wondered if there wasn’t some Stark blood in her.

He exited the room, not looking at Robb, still unconscious on the bed as Dacey sprawled in a chair next to him. His brother looked too much like the dead kings Jon had always read about, and that was a fate that Jon had never considered—he’d always thought Robb would bury him, not the other way around.

It had been selfish, he realized. _I have been selfish_.

“Please,” said a soft voice, as he entered the hallway. It came from a nearby girl, where a pretty brown haired girl who reminded him strangely of Sansa, stood in a doorway. “I’d—I’d like to help.”

The girl was dressed well, and Jon realized through the haze of pain that she had to be a Westerling, one of the daughters of the lord. “He’s your enemy,” he pointed out.

“I—I am not a Lannister,” said the girl, quietly but firmly. “I am not quite so cruel as to let a man die after the battle is already won, no matter what side he is on.”

Jon realized, then, that he might like this girl.

“Go on, then,” he said, nodding towards the door. “But you are taking responsibility for his life. Or his death, as it may happen.”

She nodded, lips pressed together as she swept toward Robb’s room, and Jon continued on his search.

He made it to Smalljon Umber’s tent, where a maester was tending to the Smalljon’s wounds. “Robb,” he said, the pain overwhelming him. “Up at the castle. Need to see to him.”

Then he was surrounded by blackness, and fell blissfully unconscious.

When he awoke, he was alone, and bandaged, and—well, still in pain, but it was more manageable. He started, remembering the events of the battle, and tried to rise, but fell back down quickly.

“Good, you’re awake,” grunted the maester, and Jon twisted to look at him. “You’ll be fine, lad, don’t worry. Just got to get your legs back under you.” He patted Jon on the back. “I’ve got others to see to, try not to push it.”

He ambled out of the room, and Jon realized he was no longer in a tent, but rather indoors. He gingerly tried to rise again, and this time stayed up—the pain intensified, but did not cripple him as he padded through the half-ruined castle that was clearly the Crag.

“Snow,” called out a voice behind, and he saw Wendel Manderly striding towards him. “Are you looking for his Grace?”

Jon nodded mutely, still unused to his brother being referred to by “Grace”—Robb was raised a lord and only made king by necessity, and Jon wondered if he would ever be used to it.

Wendel jerked his head, and Jon followed him down the hall. “The maester says the worst has passed,” said Wendel. “He made it through the night—while you were snoring away,” he added helpfully. “Jeyne Westerling is watching over him, while Dacey watches over _her_.” He sniffed. “The girl’s decent, for a all she’s a subject of the Lannisters.”

“I wonder if she says the same about us,” said Jon, quietly. “I doubt it.” They had, after all, completely torn up the girl’s way of life, and opened her family to the wrath of the Lannisters, which would undoubtedly not be painless.

“Ask her yourself,” said Wendel, and pushed open the door to reveal the girl—Jeyne—leaning over Robb as he shivered in his sleep. She held a cloth to his forehead as Dacey stalked back and forth.

Jon had to resist the urge to reach out and touch Robb, to smooth his hair and grasp at his hand. Here, he is Robb the king, and there are people around—they are getting too old for such actions to go unnoticed or unremarked.

“He’s been asking for you,” said Dacey abruptly. “Well, not asking exactly, but—he’s been talking in his sleep. It’s good you’re here.”

Jon approached Robb’s bed. He didn’t look as pale, but he was still shivering.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” said Jeyne quietly, as though sensing his thoughts, and she looked down. “I know how you’re feeling, I have brothers, my lo—“ She cut herself off, clearly unsure of how to proceed.

Jon very much doubted she knew how he felt. His fingers twitched, as if to reach out and touch Robb, but he balled them and kept them to his sides.

“Stupid,” he hissed, and Jeyne looked at him, startled. “He was stupid. He never did guard his back well enough. _Stupid_.”

“He is your _king_ ,” said Dacey warningly.

“He is my _brother_.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I’m—not interrupting, am I?” said a voice, and Dacey and Jon both turned to see the maester standing in the doorway, clutching at a piece of paper. “There was a raven, and—“ His eyes moved between Robb, still asleep on the bed, and Jon. “Snow, you—it affects you, so I suppose you should be the first to read it.”

Jon took the paper from the man’s shaking fingers, and opened it, eyes moving across it. The words registered slowly, and the paper dropped from his hands as he realized that Robb was, now, the only brother he had.

“Wake _up_ ,” he growled at Robb, knowing he sounded like a petulant child, _knowing_ that it was stupid and unbecoming and everything Lady Cat had ever thought badly about him. “Wake _up_ , Stark.”

Dacey had picked up the paper after he had dropped it, and her eyes now looked at him with something that was too akin to pity for Jon to feel comfortable with. “Snow,” she said gently. “Do not let this blind you.”

She didn’t know, she didn’t _understand_ , she hadn’t seen Bran and Rickon grow up, hadn’t seen the way Rickon would cling to Robb and follow him around, didn’t see the way Bran had tried to keep up with everything Jon and Robb did, hadn’t seen their faces light up when Jon and Robb had carried in the direwolves. She didn’t know _anything_.

It was unfair, that they had died and Jon had lived. They were trueborn Starks, and Jon was the spare.

Jon supposed that the gods must think this was funny. “The gods must be cruel, to let this happen.” The words fell brokenly from his lips.

“What need have the gods to be cruel, when they have men like Theon Greyjoy to be it for them?” said Dacey Mormont.

“ _Theon Greyjoy_ ,” spat out Jon. “Robb should never have trusted him. Ironborn have no honor.”

 _Some would say the same about bastards_ , he thought. _But I do not kill children_.

“Please don’t tell him,” he said quietly. “I—should be the one to do that.”

Robb did not wake up that day. But he did the day after.

“Snow, come quick,” said Wendel. “His Grace’s awake. He said I should bring you to him.”

Jon rose quickly from the bench, and followed Wendel down the hall, beating a now familiar path through the half-ruined castle. There were voices coming from the room Robb had taken up residence in, but Jon couldn’t hear his brother among them.

Wendel tugged open the door, and ushered Jon in. Robb was sitting up, and Jon’s knees almost went out from under him as he met Robb’s eyes. Robb was wincing as Jeyne murmured to him softly.

“Your Grace,” said Jon quietly.

“Jon,” replied his brother.

Dacey looked between them, then beat a graceful, if hasty retreat. Jeyne followed, pausing to look back at Robb before she exited the room. Wendel closed the door behind them.

Jon was caught between anger and hopelessness, but in the end, he reached out and ran his fingers through Robb’s hair, just to make sure he was still there. Robb looked up at him, eyes hazy, and Jon feared the next part. He brought his hand back to his side suddenly, and stepped back from Robb’s bed.

“There was a raven,” he said, quietly.

“Dark wings, dark words,” said Robb, sighing heavily. “How many men did we lose?”

“It…” Jon cleared his throat. “It wasn’t about a campaign. It was—Theon. He killed…” His mouth won’t form the names, not yet—it’s too soon. “Our brothers are dead.”

The words hung in the air between them, and Robb’s eyes went unfocused and sad. He swallowed once, twice, and then sobbed, a deep, choking sob. The mask slipped, and he wasn’t King Robb, he was a boy who had lost his brothers.

Jon had to fight against pulling Robb into an embrace, to share his own sadness with his brother’s, but he had not slept the night before, thinking of what this all meant.

Honor is subjective.

Robb no longer had an heir, and Jon could no longer be selfish.

“Your Grace,” he said, stiffly. “I will leave you alone to your gri—“

“Jon—“ Robb’s voice sounded broken and confused, and he looked lost. “Jon, what are you—“

“You were stupid,” Jon said, letting his anger flare up. “Reckless and stupid. You’ve never been good at guarding your back, your _Grace_.” _You trusted Greyjoy. I refuse to be a weakness for you like he was._

Robb looked more hurt than Jon had ever seen him, eyes angry. “You’re one to talk, _Snow_.”

It stung, and Jon stepped further back from Robb. “I will leave you to your grief,” he said formally, and pulled the door open. Jeyne was hovered outside, as Dacey leaned against the wall.

“Jon,” called Robb from inside. Jon ignored him. “You _bastard_ , come back.”

“He knows,” said Jon, quietly. Jeyne nodded, white-faced, and entered the room. Dacey clapped Jon on the shoulder before following.

Jon left them to it.

The last time he and Robb had kissed, it had been gentle, and everything had seemed possible. He held to that memory like a lifeline, trying to remember how Robb had felt pressed against him, now that he would never feel that again.

He didn’t sleep that night, either.

When he entered the makeshift hall where the bannermen usually ate, the entire place was in something of an uproar, men talking amongst themselves.

“What’s going on?” he asked the Smalljon.

The other man huffed. “There’s to be a wedding,” he said. “His Grace’s got himself a queen.”

“The Freys are _here_?” asked Dacey. “How did I miss _that_ , I was only asleep for a few hours.”

Smalljon snorted. “No, and that’s the problem—gods help us, but it’s the Westerling girl.”

“Not _Jeyne_?” said Dacey, openmouthed. “But…his Grace’s betrothed.”

“You should try telling his Grace that—he’s adamant that he’s going to marry the Westerling girl as soon as possible. He’s looking for you, by the way, Snow.”

“Of course he is,” said Jon, and tried to pretend that his world wasn’t falling down around him.

Robb was alone in his room, thankfully. Jon wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to handle this conversation with Jeyne right there, the physical manifestation of everything Jon wasn’t and would never be—noble-born, properly raised, and a _girl_.

“I heard the news,” said Jon. “Would you like congratulations?”

“Jon.” Robb sounded tired.

“Your Grace.”

Robb slumped. “I’m starting to think no one will ever remember my name.”

“Robb,” said Jon, quietly.

“I won’t father a—“ The words come spilling out of Robb all at once. “I know you think that I never noticed, but I saw the way—my mother isn’t the best at hiding her emotions.” He paused. “The way you were at Winterfell, I don’t want a child who has to live like that. I won’t father a bastard.”

“You don’t have to expla—“

“Yes I _do_ ,” said Robb, harshly, pushing against Jon’s shoulders. “You have to understand.”

The things neither of them are saying filled the air between them and Jon felt like he couldn’t breathe.

“I do,” he said, though he doesn’t, not _really_.

“Will you be there?” asked Robb, stoic, drawing himself up tall, and now he is the Young Wolf, not Robb Stark, and what answer can Jon give?

_I will follow you to the end, my brother._

And so Jon stood with his brother as the king in the north married his queen, and he didn’t flinch.

 

Robb named Jon his heir.

Jon had almost laughed at him when he had suggested it, because Lady Catelyn would never accept that, not _ever_ , but Robb had looked at him with eyes that pleaded with him, _let me give you this, Jon, please, this at least_ and Jon had never been able to deny his brother anything.

“Until you have a son,” he said quietly, and Robb had looked at him, sadly.

“Until then,” he had agreed.

That meant that Jon was left behind for Edmure Tully’s wedding. He had protested, wanting to be by Robb’s side, but Robb had given him charge of Jeyne and told him that it was foolish to keep all his eggs in one basket, and Dacey had given Jon a mock salute as they left, autumn snow falling gently onto their hoods and hair.

(Jon didn’t mind terribly, because he actually _liked_ Jeyne—the girl loved Robb, and had her own kind of courage, though Ghost and Grey Wind both scared her terribly.)

(And he had never liked the Freys.)

Jon didn’t get the chance to die by Robb’s side. Smalljon Umber got that honor, as did Dacey Mormont. Even Grey Wind died with his master.

Jon got a raven in the night—dark wings, dark words, as Lady Catelyn used to say. They told him that Jeyne cried, but all he could remember was a buzzing in his ears and escape out of Riverrun and running, running until he felt like his lungs might explode, and then falling to his knees, screaming until his voice was gone.

The gods were cruel indeed, to leave all his brothers dead, and his sisters scattered.

And Robb.

He remembered Robb, as a child, laughing at Sansa’s toddling steps. He remembered Robb as a boy, blushing at Theon’s vivid descriptions of the whores and their wares. He remembered Robb as a teenager, in the training yard with him, sparring until they were both so tired they collapsed onto the grass and lay there, tangled in each other. He remembered Robb, wrapped around him in other ways, hands grasping at him, mouth hot and wanting. He remembered Robb in battle, blood splattered across one cheek, face alight with the feeling of victory.

 _I should’ve died with him_.

When he returned to Riverrun, Jeyne was waiting for him.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” she said. “Mother doesn’t—she thinks I should just let him go now that he’s gone, but I can’t—I can’t.”

“I know,” said Jon, because it was too late for lies, too exhausting to put on the mask.

“I guess this is yours,” she said, feeling on her hair and pulling off her crown, thrusting it towards him.

He closed her hand on it. “You can keep that.”

“You’re the heir,” she said fiercely. “You’re…you have to…” She started crying.

“Highness,” he said, because titles were sometimes the only thing to calm people down. “You can keep it. You are as much a Stark as I am—you were Robb’s wife. You may yet hold his heir in your belly.”

“They’ll make me get rid of it,” she said softly. “If I did.”

“Not if we leave.” Because this was Robb’s wife, and Jon owed Robb this much. “We will go to Winterfell, call the banners. The north remembers.” _I hope_.

Her eyes flashed with steel for a moment, and she once again reminded him inexplicably of Sansa. She grasped the crown.

Honor is an idea, nothing more.

The gods really were cruel.

 _Forgive me, Robb. I should’ve died by your side_.


End file.
